american means . . .

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It arrived about a week ago. The thin sleek black envelope was covered in orange, mulberry and rose colored stamps of the queen of England’s head. On the back, a black 8 ball with white stenciled pointing uncle sam giving that accusatory ‘your turn’ finger and the words ‘american mettle’.

Some days later, carly asked, “Is it good?”
How the hell should I know? It’s poetry. Who knows good from bad? No one reads poetry anymore. We the modern reader want straight forward, clunky, obvious as hell, dan brown narrative structure. The reader’s response is drivel, so spoon feed it for the love of god so I don't have to think about what it might mean. The nerve of asking me to participate. Poetry.

This one is no different. Titled ‘american means’, the question is whether that is ‘means’, as in ‘how’, or ‘means’ as in ‘what’. Both are possible, of course. Despite having once smoked a lot of cigarettes, drank a fair amount of wild turkey, and spent hours passionately discussing nothing with the poet, let´s call him dave, history was little help in unraveling the poetic ambiguity. Presently though, the poet, like me, is a long way from america. My experience is that once you get out, if you get out, america quickly becomes something that engages your critical thinking. Your perspective changes and the ‘what’ and ‘how’ of it get cast upon the backdrop of the ‘what’ and ‘how’ of wherever you happen to be. The contrast in someway is striking and revealing. This juxtaposition, inevitably, compels reflection on what it, america, claims to be, what it wants to be, what it is perceived to be from the inside and the out, and how it succeeds and/or fails to mesh the reality with the ideal. More simply, it is easier to see the mountain if you aren't standing on it.

This may be what dave is up to. But it may not be too. It´s poetry, so you never know.

This ‘american means’ is a lot of things: reflection, analysis, accusation, lament, plea, and so on. It is peopled with anthropomorphized values and ethics that have washed up on a landscape of foreclosed homes, broken dreams, and weeds flourishing in the sidewalk's cracks. It may be everyman's corner of Detroit and Wall. The not faint smell of despair and despondency is almost palpable in the air. Savvy fat cats like Greed and Avarice have long ago parachuted out of town and are presumably sipping martinis and taking the sun in the Maldives. Left behind are the wrecks of Faith and Charity, Virtue and Sloth, a suicidal Job, and the pathetic, doesn´t-have-it-anymore Waste. Then there is She, who might be America or the search for America, and He, who might be its soul or perhaps its ideal, its dream, its promise, and/or hope.

The narrative thread is hued with health care, religious hypocrisy, free marketed economy, the homosexual menace, wars, violence, fabricated TV reality inanity, complacency, and materialism. A muddled backdrop of modern America. Through this dystopic patchwork collage, She sets out looking for America, which may be a search for herself. Pushing, or perhaps pulling, her along is the lament/promise that ¨the country was waste, deep in blossom and gloom¨. Notice the comma. Changes things. Poetically.

Merry Xmas. Do something unexpected. Read some poetry.
It won’t hurt you. You might even like it.

http://www.americanmeans.grievousjonespress.com/american_mettle_books.html

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Comments

[John Beck]

Release your inner poet.
Some where deep inside of you there is a poet. (or it could just be that there is an unusual amount of jibberish in this book review.) Merry X-mas.